


The Real Soulmate

by izzythehutt



Category: The Crown (TV)
Genre: Diana and Charles have a third child which saves their marriage AU, F/M, Unplanned Pregnancy, a tag I didn't think I'd ever type out, apologies to william and harry for fix-ficcing their parents' marriage, it's my only defense, it's not rpf this is the version of the characters from the show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:39:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28309866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzythehutt/pseuds/izzythehutt
Summary: Once upon a time, there was a beautiful girl who married a handsome prince. Seven years, two children, countless extramarital affairs and one near-death experience later, and the prince had made up his mind to divorce her and marry his mistress, who was already married herself. Unfortunately, he didn't take into account the potential ramifications of a single night spent with his wife on the wedding anniversary he had to endure her performing an Andrew Lloyd Webber show tune.[AU where the Waleses have an unexpected pregnancy in the late 80s that saves their marriage]
Relationships: Camilla Duchess of Cornwall/Charles Prince of Wales, Charles Prince of Wales/Diana of Wales (1961 - 1997), Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom/Philip Duke of Edinburgh
Comments: 20
Kudos: 146





	The Real Soulmate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [catie_writes_things](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catie_writes_things/gifts).



* * *

_ No man, however truly he loved his betrothed and bride as a young man, has lived faithful to her as a wife in mind and body without deliberate conscious exercise of the will, without self-denial. Too few are told that—even those brought up 'in the Church.' _

* * *

Diana tells him and the boys at the same time. He's so numb, so shocked, he can barely remember what he said until Camilla asks him.

"That it was 'a wonderful birthday present for Harry'." He runs a hand through his hair. "It was the only damn thing I could think of."

She had claimed she hadn't known until that day, but he's convinced this choice of venue and audience (William had burst into shouts of excitement) was an ambush the likes of which would never be seen again. It topped her steamrolling the speech that he'd prepared announcing the end of their marriage.

She _always_ had to upstage him.

"Well, I—suppose I should offer my congratulations."

There is no confusing this sincere well-wish with sarcasm or displeasure.

"I don't know what she's playing at." He paces up and down in front of the bed. "There is no _conceivable_ way it's mine."

Camilla sits up, the movement languid—she does not share his agitation or alarm at this shocking development.

"None...at _all_?"

Her voice is delicately incredulous.

"Of course not," he snaps. "I've been with you all the time, haven't I, darling?"

She asks him how many weeks along Diana is.

"Six— _supposedly_."

'Supposedly' is what the royal obstetrician has told him—not some fantasy of Diana's, however much he wishes it was.

Camilla counts backwards on each finger, week-by-week.

"Last week of July," she says, thoughtfully. "Hm."

He begins to reassure her about his singular devotion, that she satisfies him in every respect on that front, and why would he have gone back to Diana when—

"Your anniversary's the last week of July."

The whole appalling scene comes back to him—his face frozen in a smile as he watched that excruciating cassette, Diana having one too many glasses of wine (she was so thin she could barely stand one without falling over), walking her to her room in some grotesque approximation of gentlemanly behavior, her slender fingers wrapping around his neck and him kicking the door behind him out of a vague sense of embarrassment about the whole farcical display, fleeing before her maid could find him there the next morning—as if the whole incident was shameful, well he _had_ been ashamed, hadn't he?

Camilla can see him working it out. She arches an eyebrow.

"That was only once."

"That's all it takes, sir."

She knows he hates it when she calls him that.

"But she's—" Charles sputters. "She's gone back to the other one."

"She hadn't six weeks ago," she points out, reasonably. "You know better than anyone."

Because he'd been having her followed and spied on, which Camilla knows about and thought rather small of him, at the time.

"They could've got the date wrong."

He's convinced—irrationally—that there must be a _chance_ it's another man's, that they'd missed something. The emotion that idea fills him with is unpleasant, but it's the not the same as his anger at his plans being set back years.

"Diana wouldn't be excited if there's was a chance it was someone else's," Camilla points out. "Didn't you say she was 'euphoric'?"

Mrs. Parker Bowles is right—he hates that he knows she is right.

"On _cloud nine_ ," he says, miserably. "She had them bring out a bottle of my favorite champagne."

The same one they'd drank when she'd told him about Harry.

Camilla picks up a cigarette from the side table and lights it.

"Well, then." She takes a drag. "That's it."

* * *

The Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh don't quite manage to hide their surprise at his and Diana's announcement, but it is Papa who recovers from the shock first.

"It's good to see you've finally got your priorities in order, Charles."

He gives Diana a smile that can only be described as 'sly'—she returns it, shyly. Charles does little to hide his irritation at this exchange. Papa has been beguiled by Diana ever since that weekend at Balmoral when she slew the stag, and has never kept it a secret that he thinks his eldest son must be a blind idiot to prefer Camilla to his wife. That's what everyone thinks. The world is infatuated with his wife, or at least some glossy, tabloid facsimile of her.

If any one of them actually had to _live_ with Diana they'd probably stop thinking of her as the second bloody coming of Helen of Troy.

"Well, I must say—when we had that talk about getting things in order between the two of you, this wasn't quite what we expected." Mummy turns to his father, a discomforted smile plastered on her face. He knows she's got the long and short about the state of his marriage from Anne, and probably has the same alarming concern that he does about the paternity of the child. "Not that we aren't thrilled, of course."

"I know that it was never something we discussed, but I thought, that is, _we_ thought—" She turns to Charles. "That this would be the best way to start fresh."

'We' had not ever discussed anything about _any_ of this, actually, but Diana reaching across the chair and squeezing his hand makes it very difficult for him to speak out.

"I always wanted three. And Charles was disappointed that Harry wasn't a girl."

His plastered-on smile drops like a stone. Diana is always making him look bad in front of the pair of them—even in this moment she can't stop herself.

"I was not _disappointed_ ," he says, crossly—his irritation real, though Diana manages to pass it off as a husbandly quarrel with her reaction.

"You _were_ , darling," Diana smiles. "Oh, I know you got used to the idea _eventually,_ but you were so set on it. I knew all the time about Harry being a boy, but I didn't tell you."

"You didn't?" This is news to him, and he can tell that Diana is not lying. "Why?"

"Because you always wanted a girl. You told me yourself."

Charles has to think for a moment, remember—he's forgotten that he told her that. It wasn't something he'd just said, it was a true desire, one he never quite knew the origin of. Perhaps it was just some sentimental attachment to the idea of William having his own Anne.

Or perhaps it was the thought of Andrew that made him so eager for a girl.

"This is no guarantee of a girl," Philip remarks, amused. "You might end up with three boys, like we did, God help you."

Mummy adds something about the boys not having been all in a row.

"Oh, Pa—if _that_ happens, we shall simply have to follow your example." She squeezes his hand tightly—she'll never let go. "But I _know_ it's going to be a girl this time."

Diana blows on the ember of an old desire. It glows.

He expresses his doubts to Mummy later. It's just the two of them, because he knows he'll never stand a chance against her if she's got Papa, her pet attack dog, at her side.

"I assume you are not _such_ a deficient husband that it isn't possible your wife is telling the truth and is, in fact, bearing _your_ child."

He blanches but doesn't reply. Diana's off-key singing is playing on a perpetual loop in his head at this point.

God, he's glad Papa isn't here. He can just picture it—how many times has the Duke of Edinburgh harangued him about getting his wife under control? Though of course, that's always when Mummy is out of the room.

The Queen seems to have heard about his keeping tabs on Diana. He can't quite bring himself to lie to her about his findings (or lack thereof), and not just because Aunt Margot is sure to tell her later that he's lied. There's nothing that happens in Kensington Palace his aunt doesn't know about.

Mostly he does it out of a rather petty desire to turn them against Diana, which doesn't work, because his mother has been keeping tabs on _him_ , and she knows that Diana is the only one who has kept her end of the marital fidelity bargain.

"Even if she is," he says, bitterly—as if it's an 'if' and not a 'though'. "Everyone will think it a _possibility_ she's not _._ "

This fact does absolutely nothing good for his situation, and pointing it out ends up backfiring spectacularly.

"Then they must be given not a whiff of a reason to even _entertain_ that possibility."

What is he supposed to do, tell the Daily Telegraph he's been spying on her?

The Queen gives him his marching orders—a list of seemingly endless engagements with both of them and the children, a publicity campaign meant to present the picture of a perfect family. They are to be seen traveling together between Highgrove and Kensington Palace. Mummy has evidently read that report that was in the papers, the clever one that worked out he and Diana were not in the same house for a full six weeks last autumn, and she is furious about it.

The boys are ecstatic—not just at the prospect of a little sister, but at seeing both parents at the same time, for once.

He stands at the doorway of William's bedroom one night while Diana reads the boys a story. He knows what an attentive, warm and caring mother she is. It's one of the many ways in which he falls short of his wife, just another thing to be bitterly jealous over, but he so rarely sees her with their children when there isn't a photographer around as well. She's just as wonderful when there's no audience.

Diana doesn't notice him watching until the last four pages, when she looks up and meets his eye. She beckons him into the room, and Charles feels like an interloper in his own family. He wins the children over with a funny voice.

Diana hurries out of the room. He finds her crying in the hallway, trying desperately to hide it from him.

"I'm sorry, Charles—it's just—" She wipes her face. "You _know_ how I am when I'm—"

"—Of course."

He touches her shoulder—she's brittle, a glass figurine that will shatter if not handled with care, and when he takes her back to her room she looks up at him, pleading without words for him to stay.

Diana looks like a little girl again—she's never lost that look all these years. The ember glows brighter and he follows her into the room.

Later, when he's holding her, it occurs to him that there was no ploy to trap him, that their current situation is the result of wine, bad _duck_ à l' _orange_ and an atrocious rendition of an Andrew Lloyd Webber show tune, and it's just as difficult for her as it is for him.

This isn't a performance. His wife has long since stopped performing for him, knowing he is her harshest critic.

He leaves before Diana wakes up.

* * *

_ When the glamour wears off, or merely works a bit thin, they think they have made a mistake, and that the real soul-mate is still to find. The real soul-mate too often proves to be the next sexually attractive person that comes along. And of course they are, as a rule, quite right: they did make a mistake. _

* * *

Camilla, forever pragmatic, quashes any hope he has of them coming out in the open. She never agreed to it in the first place, but he had held out some faint (desperate and according to Anne, delusional) hope. Diana's pregnancy has closed that door, forever.

Maybe only for the time being, he tries to tell himself, but it is not a lie he still believes.

"I'm perfectly fine carrying on as we have been," she tells him, as if this is supposed to be some great balm and consolation for him.

They are living a lie, their marriages are both charades, he keeps reminding her over and over again, but Camilla never gets worked up about it, like he does. She isn't the type of woman that got worked up about anything.

_One of the many ways in which she's not like his wife._

"Aren't you at _all_ bothered about Andrew?"

His entire life has been defined by duality—the Prince of Wales on one side, Charles on the other—but for whatever reason, Camilla is far better at reconciling the two lives they're both living.

"Oh, yes—I was, once." He knew that full-well. Hadn't that been why she took up with him in the first place? As a ploy to make Andrew jealous—it hadn't even worked. The only one who'd ever been jealous between the three of them was _him._

"I've got used to it, and anyway, it would be rather hypocritical to stay angry with him _now_. Andrew's not fussed about you and I."

He's never understood this—also, since when was hypocrisy a barrier to anything in this depressing situation? It certainly has no bearing on _his_ feelings.

(" _Andrew and I aren't like you and Diana_.")

"Are _you_ bothered about your wife being unfaithful?"

That brief moment when he thought it wasn't his had been a sharp stab to the stomach, but that was about the child, not— _the other thing_.

He's not going to tell her that—but Camilla seems to know without being told.

"Your problem, darling," she tells him, sadly. "Is that you want it all the way, the whole package, _everything_."

Doesn't everyone, he asks her, naively.

"I mean—with only one of us." She sets down the cup of tea. "You'll never have it, and until you accept that—you'll be wretched."

To add insult to this wound, she actually has the temerity to advocate for Diana, to wish her well. Camilla knows about the ember ( _she knows everything_ ) and she is hopeful that old wish of his will come true. She desires his happiness—even when it's not shared with her.

Charles decides he doesn't want it to be a girl.

* * *

Diana tells him as soon as she knows, voice trembling with barely-concealed excitement. She's got the paper from the doctor with all the information on it, she hands it to him like a grammar-school child who is proud of a high mark.

Charles knows that he does a poor job of hiding his dismay at this particular wish being granted, because she does a poor job of hiding her disappointment.

It's just another string that ties the lopsided, mismatched pair of them together.

_As if it being a boy would've changed that one iota._

"Aren't you pleased, Charles?" It's too late for him to put on that smile he's taken to comparing to the false front of a stage set. "You're not pleased."

It's an accusation—not _quite_ a declaration of war, though he could see her getting there in short order. Her temper these days is even shorter than normal.

"No, of course not. It was just a—surprise."

Charles winces. It's an echo of the same words he'd used to try to paper over his disdain about that god-awful birthday dance, the words he'd used _that night._ It's not lost on her.

Diana isn't stupid, whatever he sometimes likes to say.

"You know," she tosses aside the paper the doctor gave her earlier that day. "I prefer it when you don't lie to my face."

And there it is—a shot across the bow.

"Since when?"

"Since always!"

He laughs without humor, which is something he's got very good at in the seven years they've been married.

"In my experience, telling you the truth has never done any good for either of us."

Diana looks as if she would like to strike him, or strangle him. In this respect she is the exact opposite of Camilla, theatrical female jealous hysteria _par excellence_.

"I don't need you to tell me," her voice rises to a hysterical pitch—earlier than he expected. "It's obvious. You hate me and you hate this baby."

Her tone of voice conveys, in no uncertain terms, that this supposed feeling of his is entirely mutual.

"You are being unnecessarily dramatic." She's probably doing this for the benefit of the servants. "I'm simply not going to pretend this was something we _planned_ or discussed—"

"—How _could_ we discuss it, when you won't even answer your _own wife's_ phone calls?"

It's the first time she's brought that particular subject up to his face, but from the way she's trembling, it's been on her mind for quite a while.

"We're discussing it, now, aren't we?"

He forces himself to calm back down, but his voice isn't calm.

"Only because I'm having your child and you don't have a choice." She lets out a little hiccup of a laugh. " _Apparently_ that's what it takes for you to stop ignoring me."

He dearly, dearly wishes there was a drink cart near him in this moment.

"Don't be a martyr, Diana." She tosses her head and huffs and stalks over to the window. "And _don't_ pretend you're not taking _full_ advantage of this situation."

"What are you talking about?"

"You know _exactly_ to what I refer."

Diana probably hadn't known, but the resentment and suppressed passion in his voice makes it abundantly clear.

"Oh, you mean keeping you away from _her_?"

Camilla was not the direction he wanted this conversation to go (or was it exactly the place he wished to be?) but she is always what they come back to. He has long since given up any pretense of denying he prefers Camilla's company to hers, and that he resents having fewer opportunities to spend with the Parker Bowleses, and that he blames her and that damned anniversary weekend for all of it.

Diana knows the truth but wants him to deny it, wants him to at least _act_ as though her feelings on this subject matter to him, and so he takes extra, petty glee in not meeting her wifely expectation.

Her lip trembles.

"Does _she_ know?"

"About what?"

"About _our daughter._ "

That was how this ill-fated conversation had begun, but this is the first time it really dawns on him that they now have three children.

He doesn't hesitate.

"She doesn't know it's a girl." Charles shrugs his shoulders, coldly. " _Yet._ "

If Diana hadn't wanted to be wounded, he thinks, seeing the angry tears swell in her eyes, she shouldn't have asked in the first place.

"You are _loathsome._ "

"That is a well-established fact."

Diana hates that he won't even grant her the satisfaction of disagreeing with him, which is yet another win for him on the endless list of petty point-scoring they have.

"I don't know why I'm even surprised." She's not surprised and never has been. "You were with _her_ the other two times, as well."

There have been very few times in their marriage Charles has had cause for indignation where infidelity is concerned, and this is one of them.

"That's not true." He hears the defensiveness rise in his own voice. "It isn't. I was only with you, then."

 _Then_ being the operative word, the only word that matters. To be unfaithful now is to have been unfaithful always, in Diana's eyes.

"I don't recall you being 'with me' much at all." Was it his fault she childishly locked herself in bedrooms and had fits and was generally impossible to be around when she was pregnant? "And you clearly have no self-control, so if you weren't getting _that_ from me, you must've been getting it from someone."

"I wasn't getting ' _it'_ from anyone!"

She apparently still didn't grasp that's why he'd always been in such a foul mood. Diana lets out an overwrought laugh.

"Are you blaming _me_ for that?"

"Well, you didn't exactly offer, did you?"

"You didn't exactly _ask._ "

"I didn't need to," he says, bitterly. "You made it _quite_ clear what the answer would be."

His wife is so apoplectic that he hopes she doesn't hear that faint insecurity, see the soft underbelly this admission has exposed. He's never thought himself good enough for her on that score.

Or any others, if he's being honest—which he rarely is.

"Well—" Diana puts her hand over her stomach, protectively. "I'm glad you were able to work it out at least _once_."

It's only after she's stormed out of the room and locked herself in her bedroom (just like old times!) that he realizes his wife has inadvertently admitted she desires him.

The thought gives him far more pleasure than it ought to.

Charles hadn't realized how much thinking otherwise had hurt him, had stung his pride.

* * *

Everyone else in the family finds out at his fortieth birthday party. As usual, an evening that is supposed to be about him becomes about Diana.

His only solace is that the attention is also taken from Andrew and the newborn Princess Beatrice. His brother is annoyed and would've poked at him in any case, but the knowledge that in six months he'll be fifth in line to the throne makes the Duke of York especially testy.

"The question of the hour is—when did you find time for this, Charles?" His younger brother grins, lasciviously. "We all know how _busy_ you are."

Everyone in the family knows how little he spends time with his wife, in other words. He has been expecting some of them to wonder whether the child Diana is pregnant with is his, but it is particularly appalling for _Andrew_ of all people to suggest it.

"There's no need to get _defensive_. None of us thought you had it in you," Andrew mugs for Mummy across the room, who gives him an indulgent smile. "We are celebrating you entering your dotage, after all. Thought you were a bit old for this."

He makes a mental note to strip Andrew of his title at the earliest opportunity. Papa comes up behind him and clasps his shoulder in that rough way that sometimes feels more like a strike than a squeeze.

"Forty is the prime of life." He taps the side of Charles's head and gives one of the ears he's always been self-conscious of an affectionate tug. "I was forty when we had _you_."

This is the closest his father has come to defending him in something like a decade, and it gives him far more comfort than it ought to, at his age. Later Papa finds him brooding in a forgotten corner of the house. He expects he's about to get a telling-off—instead the Duke of Edinburgh is gentle—or the approximate Battenberg equivalent.

"You don't seem very happy."

"About turning forty or—" He forces some of the champagne he agonized over the selection of down. "—Being a father again?"

"Either."

He looks up—Papa is giving him one of those hard looks the Navy perfected in him, the one that tells Charles this conversation will only end when his commanding officer deems it over.

Papa stands there, waiting for him to provide—what, an explanation? An excuse? He has never known what it was that his father wants from him besides that he's forever missing the mark.

"Did Mummy send you?"

"What would she send me for?"

The Duke of Edinburgh, even after forty years as liege man of life and limb, still resents the implication that he's at his wife's beck and call. If Charles had _half_ the control over Diana that his mother has over his father he would certainly not be in his current predicament.

"To—fetch me. Or to give one of her famous rousing speeches," He leans against the moulding around the window and away from his father. "About how having children is my—patriotic duty to the nation. There's usually some god-awful and depressing story about great-granny Mary thrown in to buck me up."

"Charles—"

"—I could always use an encore of the one she gave on the eve of my wedding. _That's_ a classic."

Apparently Papa does not know this speech, or at least he pretends not to know about it, and so Charles paraphrases it for his stoic father. It's a childish exercise, but he's a childish man, so it fits. When he finishes his father doesn't speak for a moment.

"I take it you didn't find that—helpful."

"No, to tell you the truth, I found the whole thing rather gruesome," he seethes, pettishly. "Especially coming from her."

His mother is a hypocrite of the highest order, to be lecturing _him_ about giving up what matters most in service of the country, of duty, as if she hadn't got the one thing that mattered most handed on a silver platter to her when she was only 21. He tells Papa as much, because it's something he's been dying to say ever since he was invested, and if he's not brave enough to say it now that he's passed this particular milestone, Charles is pretty sure he never will.

"Your mother hasn't always had an easy time of it."

He's defending her. Of course he is—it's not only his job in life, it's what he enjoys most.

"I mean with _me_."

"She did choose you, at least." He lets out a long sigh. "And you understand her, which is more than can be said about Diana and I."

His father has never had a high tolerance for emotions expressed by anyone, let alone men, let _alone_ men who happened to be his sons.

"Why are you so hung up on being _understood_?" Papa demands, gruffly, and he half-expects to be cuffed around the head. "Why do you think _that_ is most important?"

"It would've been a nice thing to have from the _one_ family member I theoretically was to choose for _myself_ , that's all."

His voice breaks off at the end, cracks, and he tries to look away—but Papa meets his eyes, and Charles knows he understands. The inference is unmistakable.

"You," Papa says, severely. "Have always walked about as if you were living in some sort of dream."

"It will please you to learn," he replies, in a seething voice. "That I seem to have woken up from it at last."

Since Diana has told him she prefers it, and since he has nothing left to lose, he decides to lay it all out for his father, point-by-point, the whole ghastly business—what he'd intended to tell them that audience they'd been called to after the avalanche, how blind-sided he'd been by Diana's supposed re-commitment to their marriage, how he'd even been hoping for her to slip up to give him an excuse to sever ties completely.

He's sure Papa will be disgusted with all of this, but he's always felt his father disliked him, and so it's better for him to dislike Charles for the reasons he deserves.

"And then," he finishes up, the pièce de résistance of his pathetic story. " _This_ happened."

He waves a hand vaguely in the direction of the hallway where he is sure a crowd of sycophants have clustered around the Princess of Wales, glowing from the pregnancy which has so inconveniently derailed his attempt to divorce her.

His father is not quite as chilly as he would've expected, in the circumstances. Perhaps having this conversation at his birthday party has given him some leeway, slack cut from Papa's tirade. But his father isn't angry, not even with the dreaded 'd' word being bandied about by the future of the Crown.

"I think it's safe for me to assume that _this_ —" He makes the same metaphoric gesture towards Diana. "—Was not part of your plans."

"Yes, it does rather work against me, doesn't it?"

"But it happened."

"A happy or unhappy accident, depending on who you ask." He laughs. "And what day it happens to be."

His father considers the problem. At least he's not laying into his eldest, telling him to toughen up over a problem nobody seems to grasp as even being possible.

"Diana is beautiful." Always the first argument against him. "Most men would give their right arms to be in your position."

"Haven't you heard that beauty is 'skin deep'?" Charles replies, because he's so sick of this argument—as if _that_ is supposed to make up for everything else. "It's not what matters most in life—or to me."

"Clearly."

Charles lets his father's poking about the comparative looks of his wife and mistress go uncontested. If it had been Andrew he would've pushed back more.

"Let's just say being married to a _goddess_ is not all it's cut out to be."

Papa cracks a small smile.

"I understand—better than you realize."

For all Philip loves Diana, he seems to understand that all that glitters is not gold, now that Charles has dared to say it out loud. He's married to his own sort of goddess, after all—even though Mummy has grown plump and gray around the temples, she's still God's anointed.

To the nation and to her husband.

"Diana is beautiful—" He repeats, then pauses. "And she loves you. You should be grateful. In the end, that's all that matters."

"It's not _all_ that matters."

And you couldn't love something you didn't understand, though—not really.

Papa shakes his head.

"She can't read your mind, Charles." His lip twitches. "You might try talking to her—I've heard that can go a long way towards improving relations."

"That was not something I recall ever seeing modeled in this family."

His father gives him a pained look, and he is suddenly back in the cockpit of that airplane. In fact, for the first time it occurs to him that he's never left it.

"There comes a point where a man has to take responsibility for himself." The Duke of Edinburgh walks to the door. "You're well past it."

Charles is left wishing his father had dragged him out, had bullied him out of himself—but as Papa says, he's well past it. He has to drag himself out, which he does (sluggishly.) After all, there is a toast to be made in his honor to smile his way through. Papa gives it again, like he did at Edward's, and he doesn't mention Diana until the end.

"I think we all appreciate the Princess of Wales for expanding Charles's _cultural horizons_ ," the family laughs. "Among other things…"

His brothers laugh and he's fairly certain Andrew lets out a cat-call.

The orchestra plays his father off with a heavily synthesized poppy dirge Princess Anne takes great pleasure in informing Charles is the overture to _The Phantom of the Opera._

"Did _you_ tell them all?" he hisses at her. Anne is not even trying to hold back her smile.

"It was Edward. You know he helped Diana set up that anniversary present, through his erm, 'connections'." His brother's ill-fated foray into theatricals is a bit of a family joke. "And though we may not be a family of _great_ intellectuals, we're all capable of basic arithmetic."

It takes him a minute to cotton on to her full meaning.

"You mean everyone knows about—"

"—We were all surprised to hear of your newfound appreciation for the works of Andrew Lloyd Webber."

No wonder they all keep smirking at him. Charles is mortified, so mortified that he groans out loud.

"You should be grateful everyone knows it's yours."

"I'm not sure if the impression that I find musical theatre _arousing_ is a great trade-off." He rolls the stem of a wine glass in his hands. "How can they all be sure?"

"Because Diana is happy, and she wouldn't be if there was even a chance it wasn't."

That's what Camilla said. Why is that a known fact? Is it just because she's covering herself? It would be the perfect revenge, in a way—the living embodiment of his wife returning the favor. The one form of revenge he's not capable of inflicting on her.

" _Is_ Diana happy?"

He can't quite tell. From across the room his wife seems—if not radiant, than at least sanguine.

"Ecstatic." Anne sips her champagne. "It's the one thing you can't do wrong. It's not just that her position is secured—apparently Diana always wanted three. She's excited about it."

"About _her_ ," he corrects, thoughtfully. "It's a girl."

She asks him on the car ride back to Kensington Palace if had a nice birthday—he answers that he did, and for the first time in ages he's enjoyed an evening spent out with her, and it's not a lie.

Charles thinks she can tell the difference.

* * *

_ Nearly all marriages, even happy ones, are mistakes: in the sense that almost certainly (in a more perfect world, or even with a little more care in this very imperfect one) both partners might have found more suitable mates. But the 'real soul-mate' is the one you are actually married to. _

* * *

"You were going to tell them you wanted to separate, weren't you?"

They are in London—her territory—when this question is asked. The boys are asleep, he has come into the sitting room to find her watching television, and it comes out without her even turning her head.

"You preempted me." As per usual. "I couldn't correct for it. I'm too used to going first, apparently."

"Did you prepare a speech?" Diana turns her head. "I saw you reach for something in your pocket."

He always likes to be prepared, in such situations.

"What did it say?"

She's visibly pregnant and already emotional—the question is if answering or ignoring her question is going to have worse consequences.

"That our marriage has irrevocably broken down and that there's no point in pretending otherwise. That you and I make each other profoundly unhappy and it would be for the good of all parties concerned that we separate—formally." He tries to keep his voice as flat and neutral as possible. Surely by now she's guessed all this, and is just asking the question because she has a singular talent for hurting herself unnecessarily. "Basically the exact opposite of your speech."

"What I said, was not a _speech_."

"It was. It may not have been written down, but it was a speech. A virtuoso performance. You told them _exactly_ what they wanted to hear." He taps his finger against the back of the sofa. "At least _mine_ was honest."

"What _I_ said," She sits up and turns around—in as much as she can, in her state. She's a bit squashed against the chair. "Was the truth."

"What, that thinking I was dead made you consider what life without me would be like?" He supposes that is probably true, it's her conclusion from that line of thinking he can't quite believe. But maybe Diana is as self-deluded as he sometimes thinks. "I'm surprised you weren't hoping for it."

"Do not joke about that!" Her voice rises in pitch. "It's _too_ awful."

"You would be free."

"I would be wretched." She falls back down on the chair. "And anyway, I wouldn't be free. I'd still be stuck with the rest of them."

Charles laughs—she smiles a little, like she always does when she manages to make him laugh.

"That's very true. Still, you'd have the least pleasant one off your back."

Her eyes, he can see, have gone all watery. _Damn._

"You cannot imagine what that would be like for the boys." Her voice catches in her throat, which is the only thing she does he is sure is never a performance. "And for me."

He remembers Papa's words—and what she claims she wants from him.

"I'm sorry I—asked you to marry me, Diana."

It's probably the least romantic thing a husband could apologize for, but it's a start.

"I've known you were sorry for yourself for some time."

"No," he insists, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. "Not for me. For you. I—mislead you. I should have let you go into it with your eyes open."

"I was not as stupid," Diana replies, coolly. "Or _blind_ as you thought me, at the time."

This is fair. She may have been barely more than a child, but she had enough of the woman in her to confront him to his face at their wedding rehearsal, of all times.

"I thought she and I could be—just friends." This is the part he knows _she_ will assume is a lie. "The bracelet _was_ meant to be a goodbye."

This causes a shrill laugh that makes him wince.

"I know you don't believe me, but it _was_ ," he insists, emphatic. "And it wasn't just the family who thought you and I should—"

"You don't mean _her_?"

He expected her anger, but not her indignance at this—but of course, Diana understands Camilla about as well as he understands Andrew.

"Camilla was all for it." He decides on impulse to go all-in. "It was _her_ idea for me to invite you to Balmoral. And after the family gave their approval—"

"—You mean _ordered_ you—"

"—She seconded it. Gave the idea her full-throated, ringing endorsement, in fact."

He manages to keep most of the bitterness he still feels about that out of his voice. Diana takes this in. It is a shock—but the sort of shock that only surprises you for a moment, because everything that was so murky is at last clear to you.

Charles wonders if this gambit of his was a fatal mistake (there are no fatal mistakes now, only wounds, because this marriage will never actually die, the two of them are quite stuck with each other now.)

"Tell me," Diana struggles to control her breathing, and he takes a few steps towards her, concerned. "Was there _anything_ leading up to our wedding that was actually _your_ idea?"

She is definitely going to cry.

"It was my idea to ask you out."

"And why _did_ you?"

He wasn't expecting her to ask him that. Nobody has ever actually asked him, they've only ever assumed the reasons. Some of their assumptions are correct, of course.

Some—but not all.

"Because you were young and beautiful and from the right kind of family. You were the sort of girl Dickie told me I should marry." She must know about that—maybe not the Dickie thing, but the rest. "And because you were in awe of me."

"Well, I'm not anymore."

This petulant denial makes him smile.

"You still are— _a little._ "

She glares at him, trying very hard not to smile back—but she still has that innocent girl about her, the one peaking at him through the branches, trying to catch a glimpse of a prince. He's been more of an ogre to her, by his own reckoning.

"You were also—" Here he hesitates. "You were about as unlike Camilla as it was possible to be."

This aspect of her appeal was something he realized very late. Diana does not seem to take comfort in it, even on the heels of him calling her beautiful, and what that implies about the competition.

"You wanted to marry a woman who was _nothing like_ the love of your life?"

"In hindsight, that part makes less sense than it did at the time." He laughs at himself—poor idiot. "And she's not the 'love of my life'."

Diana lets out an unseemly snort.

"According to Anne, for her that's Andrew." Andrew—who predates him and who married her after and is married to her still. "You can't have someone as the love of your life if you aren't the love of theirs."

"Is that a rule, now?"

"It is for me."

"I think that's a silly rule."

"Does Captain Hewitt hold a torch for someone else?" Charles sticks his hands in his pockets. "How unhappy you and I are in love, Diana."

She cannot disagree with him. It is a categorical fact, indisputable. If either of them had the faintest trace of common sense, they'd give up on the idea of it altogether.

"There was—one other thing."

He had almost forgotten it, which is strange, because of all the reasons it's the one that stands out most clearly to him.

"What was that?"

"You were kind. You asked if I was alright, about Dickie. You noticed." He is a little embarrassed about the next part. "You said you were—praying for me."

Diana's breath hitches in her throat again.

"I did," she says, softly. "Every night."

"You must've been about the only one. At least, you were the only one who told me."

"It's a funny reason to ask someone out."

"It is, isn't it?" That thought has never occurred to him. "When I got your number from her, Sarah tried to talk me out of it."

"She warned you?" He nods. "Well, she obviously didn't do a very good job."

"Oh, she did an excellent job." Everything she'd said had struck a chord of ominous warning. He'd known it wasn't jealousy—or at least not only that. You didn't have those answers so well-prepared if there isn't truth in it. "I just ignored her."

"Why?"

"Because I—wanted to take you out."

It was just that simple. He may not have wanted to marry Diana, but he had wanted that. In that moment, at least once, when it had been only the two of them and the decision entirely in his hands—he had chosen _her_ and no one else.

"At least there's that."

It's not quite the fairy tale she's been hoping for, clearly—but at least it's the truth. It's probably not enough for either of them, because they both want it all, the whole package, everything.

It's not everything—but it's _something._

* * *

Diana's maid finds them the next day, and though she recovers from her surprise quickly, the sight of the Prince of Wales in his wife's bedchamber obviously embarrasses her.

It embarrasses _him_ more, once he realizes he's not wearing a shirt and remembers the circumstances around which it was removed from his person.

Him hastily expelling her maid from the room wakes up his wife. For a moment it seems as though she doesn't recognize who he is—perhaps it's just that she so rarely has seen him in this particular context.

"I—think I just sent your breakfast away," he murmurs, apologetically.

Diana blinks at him, sleepily. Her arm has crawled its way out from under the cushions and there is no strap or shirt sleeve in sight, and any doubts he has about what has occurred.

"Too bad." She sits up in bed, and the sheet falls down and he _averts his eyes_. "I'm hungry."

Now that she's awake the full reality of how he ended up in her bed and not his can no longer be ignored. The memory of the previous evening comes back to him, but it's all a bit—fuzzy. I mean he can picture the middle clearly, it's the how it got started bit he can't recall.

"How did this happen?"

Diana doesn't have an ounce of shame.

"I suppose it happened—because we wanted it to."

There wasn't any other reason. After all, she was already in— _that_ state, and so neither one of them could fall back on the excuse of duty to queen and country being a factor in the decision.

"Did we?" Charles asks, bewildered. "Whose idea was it?"

"I think it was _your_ s." Diana's face brightens like the sun. "I'm certain it was, actually."

Charles is not sure he likes that gleeful tone of voice too much.

"How do you know?"

"Because—" She leans over and rests her chin on his shoulder. "I was tired, and _you_ woke me up."

He can't even sputter out a defense, because he can remember just as clearly as she can, and there was basically no better tangible proof that she's right. He'd had the perfect excuse—but he hadn't taken it.

"Well, I—hope I didn't keep you up too late." Diana giggles and rolls over onto her side. "And that it wasn't too much of a—bother."

"It wasn't."

A blush creeps across his forehead. Charles clears his throat.

"And that you—enjoyed yourself."

It's a sort of weakness to him, to admit that he cares, but with the act so recent, it's hard not to need the reassurance. Diana gives him what he guesses is supposed to be a sultry smile, but though she is beautiful, that is not a mode that she will ever wear well, in his opinion.

"Well, I've had better."

It's a wound, a stab in the stomach—something he'd never expected she would use to hurt him. Diana's face falls, she lifts her left hand to her cheek. In the excitement of last evening she forgot to take off her engagement ring, and that obscene sapphire reflects the light through the curtains and glitters, nearly blinding him.

His wife is horrified by the way he's taken the comment, and when he tries to get out of the bed (how many men has she shared it with?) Diana throws herself onto him and pulls him back down.

"I meant from _you_ , Charles."

Not knowing what else to do, she wraps her arms around him, tightly. Eventually he relaxes in her grip and mutters something about being too sensitive and not in any position to accuse or judge, under the circumstances, and she lets go. Diana might've kept him like that all day if he hadn't accepted her apology, clumsy as it was.

She keeps her head resting on his shoulder, because she's not quite confident enough to be sure he'll stay. Charles is not sure he will, himself.

"I suppose we're both a little out of practice," Diana says, sometime later.

_With each other, at least._

"It might help if we get back in the habit. And—"

"—'Give it to each other on a more regular basis'?"

The memory—one of the few unquestionably good ones from their marriage—makes both of them laugh.

"I'm past my prime, where that's concerned." He runs his fingers through her hair. "Clearly."

"Pa says forty is just hitting your stride."

"Well, if _Papa_ says it…"

They both have things they need to attend to, but Charles is the one who gets out of bed first. He refuses to give Diana the satisfaction of ordering her to look the other way as he dresses.

He also refuses to admit that her attention is not unwelcome.

* * *

" _Alice Alexandria Helena Mary_." His mother lowers her reading glasses. "Well, that's a suitably royal name."

"Fit for a princess."

After the whole 'Annabel' fiasco with Andrew, Charles was determined to clear the name that Diana and he chose with the Queen first.

"Your father will be pleased about Alice."

"I didn't pick it to please him." Knowing looks are not his mother's style, thankfully, so she doesn't give him one now. "Diana likes it—it was her choice."

"Where does 'Helena' come from?"

He should tell her it's for Queen Victoria's third daughter. Mummy will not question it, she's not exactly inquisitive where these sorts of things are concerned.

"Shakespeare. _Midsummer Night's Dream._ " He adjusts his pocket square, and adds, unnecessarily— "Helena is a character from the play."

"Oh." His mother is trying without much success to put this into context. "Wherever did you get that idea?"

Charles suddenly feels awkward. He was so focused on the question of whether she would approve that that he might have to explain the meaning to his usually incurious mother had not occurred to him.

"It's—personal to Diana and me."

"You're naming a princess of the realm something— _personal_ to the two of you."

That slight bite of sarcasm has as much power over him as a shout from his father. He explains, briefly as possible, that a love of the play is something he and his wife share. Elizabeth looks astounded to discover that he shares anything with her at all.

"And who is 'Helena'?"

"She's—one of the lovers."

"That rings a sort of bell." She's playful about it—at least playful for her. Mummy's pleased it's a girl, too. That makes it an even three and three. "And who is she in love with?"

"Demetrius. They are betrothed before it all starts. Unfortunately—" Charles hesitates. "—He...falls in love with someone else."

His mother has perfected the art of doing nothing, and her reaction—which is to _not_ react—perfectly reflects this.

"Who?"

"Hermia."

Giving his mother a Shakespeare tutorial was not how he intended to go about telling her the state of his marriage, but as direct confrontations have never been their strong suit, well—it will have to do.

"Hermia?" The Queen repeats, as if this is a strange and silly word. "Hermia, who is—?"

"—In love with—Lysander." He winces out a smile. "That's part of the comedy of the play, you see, everyone is in love with the wrong—people."

His mother fixes her face in a familiar, frigid smile.

"Yes, I think I get the general idea."

Mother and son lapse into a awkward long silence. He is always aware of their relative stations in life, that so long as she is alive she can never be only a mother to him. But she'll never be only a queen, either.

And he is both successor and son—though the former is what she cares about most. She's got two others of the latter type, after all.

"As far as choices you could make," she finally manages to choke out, through her teeth. "That might be a _bit_ on the nose, dear."

Charles cringes. His mother is always going on about how she doesn't believe in interfering in the lives of her grown children—but that never seems to have stopped her with him. He's never not known when he was in her bad books, or when she disapproved, even if she so rarely actually says it aloud.

His choice of name for his daughter has apparently driven his mother to actually speak her mind.

"Your father says that perhaps Diana was—" She makes sure to pause. "—Not _totally_ frank about the state of your marriage when you informed us about—Alice."

For a moment he doesn't realize she's talking about the baby.

"What _else_ did Papa say?"

Everything that was said between them at the birthday party, Charles wagers. He tries to remember what he said, what she must know, because unlike Diana and him, his parents have no secrets between them.

"I don't need your father to tell me what I can see plainly."

"Which is?"

"That you have been unhappy—and find _me_ wholly unsympathetic to your plight, the _plight_ for which you blame me entirely."

Well, when she puts it like _that_ , it all seems so childish and pathetic. It helps that she sounds less regal than resentful.

"I don't blame you— _entirely_."

Mummy doesn't know how to take this. He sighs, laughing at himself.

"You didn't make Camilla marry Andrew. And you didn't make me marry Diana, much as everyone makes it out you did."

"We didn't hold you at sword-point," she says, voice tired. "But we strongly encouraged it."

" _I'm_ the one who walked down the aisle of the Abbey and pronounced the vows before Queen and country and God." He shakes his head. "I even tried to keep them, Mummy, for a little while, at least. Can you believe that? No—" Charles runs his fingers through his hair. "I'm sure you can't."

He expects a rebuke, but it doesn't come.

"I thought—I had _hoped_ you were turning a corner in your marriage."

She sounds sad—an emotion he's not used to hearing from her.

"Oh, I am. Just not the one I wanted to turn." He looks down at the paper where the name is written out in perfect script, then back up at the Queen. "I'm sorry to have disappointed you, Mummy."

An apology for this latest transgression—for a whole lifetime's worth. He makes an excuse to go, one he knows she won't fight against. It's amazing they've lasted this long in coming up with things to say to each other.

She wants him to buck up, to do the right thing—and be happy about it. For Charles those are two separate propositions entirely.

"And how does everything turn out for them, in the end?"

"For who?"

"The characters in the play."

He has forgotten, almost.

"Oh—that. Happily. There's a nectar from a flower that makes everyone fall in love with the people they're supposed to be." Charles waves his hand, despairingly. "Very convenient."

Wouldn't that make everything so much simpler, neater? Tie the story up with a handsome bow. The world believes him to be in a fairy tale, after all.

"In my experience," his mother says, cautiously. " _Happiness_ is not something that simply happens. Most people could be happy if they had the strength of will and character to make the best of their situation in life."

He won't ask if this is something his great-grandmother once told her, much as he would like to.

"That sort of happiness may not come as easily as falling in love..." She's careful, always careful. "But it is _possible_."

"Even for those of us who don't have strength of will _or_ character?"

"Yes—even then." Her voice gets brittle, on the edge of a scold. "It requires discipline and self-sacrifice, virtues the future Head of the Church would do well to cultivate."

Of course, she _would_ have to bring all things ecclesial into it.

"Most of all, it requires _effort_."

Mummy kisses him on each cheek before sending him on his way.

Later, when he comes home, he finds Diana playing with the children. He watches them for a long time before his wife notices. Diana wants to know if they have the Queen's approval.

"Yes—and her blessing."

* * *

_ Only the rarest good fortune brings together the man and woman who are really as it were 'destined' for one another, and capable of a very great and splendid love. The idea still dazzles us, catches us by the throat: poems and stories in multitudes have been written on the theme, more, probably, than the total of such loves in real life. _

* * *

"When Alice is born, I think we should go on a trip."

Charles looks up from his papers. He's been trying to focus on the plans for this new garden at Highgrove all evening. Between the boys and his wife wandering in, he's hardly had a moment to think.

"I thought you objected to being separated from your children."

"I do." Her face drops at the very thought.

"I seem to recall," Charles continues, rubbing his temples. "Your attachment was so great that you insisted on dragging William hither and yon all over Australia when he was just nine months old."

"He needed to be with his mother." Diana nibbles her thumb. " _And_ his father. You don't really regret us bringing William with us, do you, Charles?"

The Australia tour is one of the points in their marriage he likes to revisit least, because he knows in his guilty and petty-minded heart that it was a turning point, and he was the one on which it turned—he was the one who made it turn the wrong way.

"Of course not."

"He was the star of the whole tour."

"No—" He shoves the papers aside—no work will be done tonight. " _You_ were the star of that tour."

She rests a hand on his shoulder—an apologetic gesture, which used to make him cringe and pull away, like a turtle returning to its shell.

"I mean it." Charles raises his head up to look her in the eye. Diana's pleading with him, in that gentle way that usually fills him with a combination of irritation and guilt. "A family trip, just us."

They are still not used to being around one another, to both trying in their marriage at the same time, and the children are the easiest point of contact around which to plan.

"Did you have somewhere in mind?"

His wife's eyes light up, and she tells him, without a hint of irony or humor, that she firmly believes a trip to Disneyworld in Orlando, Florida would be a dream vacation for all of them. Diana has never been great shakes at picking up on his sarcasm, but when she fails to see his point about how the merits of such a trip would be lost on the newborn princess of the realm, Charles loses his temper.

"Diana, don't be absurd."

"You _know_ I don't like it when you call me that!"

"So you should take care to make fewer absurd suggestions."

She is still, despite being nearly a mother of three, a child, and at times very difficult to deal with. Trying, it turns out, is a lot more work than ignoring her had been.

"Fine." Diana huffs. "Harry, William, Alice and I will all go without you and—we will have a marvelous time."

"I'm the head of this family, and no one will be going anywhere without my—permission." And they wouldn't be having a marvelous time without him. "Certainly not somewhere as vulgar as Disneyworld. Honestly, where did you even get the notion?"

For someone who has been a member of the Royal Family for as long as she has, Diana has some remarkably naive—or willfully ignorant—ideas about what is appropriate for the children of a future sovereign to be exposed to.

"From the children." Of course. "William wants to go—in fact, it was _his_ idea."

He groans—yet another headache. She wasn't seriously putting responsibility for this on their six-year-old son, was she?

"And whose fault is that? You're the one who puts all these ideas in his head."

"Ideas about being a _normal_ child, you mean?"

"William is not _normal_ ," Charles points out, exasperated. "He's the future King of England."

" _And_ he happens to want to go to Disneyworld. And he wants a hamburger from McDonalds."

"Which is a ridiculous thing for him to want, and if his mother wasn't so _indulgent_ —"

"—It's not any more ridiculous than a future King of England _talking to his carrots_."

Her needling him about the gardening and him needling her about her vulgar tastes leads to yet another argument, and Diana storms off in a huff, as per usual.

Later, much later, Harry comes into the room and crawls onto his lap and asks, in a small but very polite voice, if he plans on going with them to Florida.

He goes to look in on Diana—not because he has to (they have separate rooms not even close to each other) or because he wants to (the prospect of it exhausts him) but because he feels he should.

She's crying on the bed, and his first (safest) assumption is that he is the cause.

"I didn't expect the subject of holiday plans would bring us to such grief."

It's a clumsy joke—just about the only kind he's ever been capable of, with her. His wit is lost on his wife.

"I can't _believe_ I thought you'd be pleased by the idea." She's talking into the pillow. "I should've known better. We've only been married _seven years_."

He hovers at the door—then takes a step inside.

"I thought it would get easier, on its own. That after a while we'd just—"

"—Understand one another?" He sits on the end of the bed. "Know each other, inside and out?"

"Something like that." She sits up, looking at him with tear-stained face. "But it's hopeless."

Charles knows what she means. If it hasn't happened by now, it probably never will. There is nothing about the way either of them thinks that the other can make out easily. They are two puzzles with all the pieces jumbled together—everything confusion with no pieces ever quite fitting.

He apologizes, in his stilted and guilt-ridden way, for having overreacted—it's just a holiday, and if she wants to take the boys, of course he doesn't object. Charles knows, of course, that she won't want to leave the baby behind—or her husband, for that matter.

"It was just—I wanted William to feel as though we _listen_ to him. That he can always tells us what he thinks and wants." She looks up at him. "That he knows he's loved."

"With a mother like you, that will never be a question in his mind."

For all this talk about her not understanding him, he reads his meaning well enough in this moment. She doesn't want their son to end up a cold, unfeeling ogre like his father. Diana will never say that, of course, but she's borne the weight of that particular burden more than anyone—even his mother.

"I wish I was more...what you wanted."

Diana can't bring herself to say 'more like her', especially now that she knows he chose her for the express reason that she's _not_ like _her,_ but it's implied all the same. He insists he wouldn't have Diana any other way, that she's a wonderful mother to their children, who adore her.

"I'm not talking about William and Harry, Charles." She stares down at the coverlet. "You don't know what it's like."

A hollow voice, soul-deadening. It's the sound of despair, and for all the pain that's come from this ill-fated union, he's never heard that. She doesn't sound like a woman who has won (which she has) but one who's given up.

"I'll never be the woman you love." Diana is gutted. "I'll only ever be the woman you _married_."

This is not enough for her.

He leaves her to her despair, cognizant that it's not enough for _him_ , either.

* * *

Camilla is not surprised when he tells her. But then—has he ever managed to surprise her? She knows him so well, better than he knows himself, it seems.

"I've been thinking we needed to, for awhile."

"Why didn't you say anything?"

"I was waiting for you to realize." The smoke from her cigarette curls towards the ceiling. Charles thought she was trying to quit, but then again—he's seen her so little these last few months, because Mummy has filled his schedule up and made it nearly impossible. He's missed her, like the ache of a wound. "And for you to end it."

"But I don't _want_ to end it."

"I know that. But it'll be easier, in the long run."

Imagining it will ever be easy in any sense is not something Charles can conceptualize, in this moment. Even his imagination has its limits.

"For whom?"

"For you."

She explains, wryly, that if she was the one who stepped aside, who did the _noble thing_ and gave the princess back her prince, that the Prince of Wales will only hold her on a higher pedestal than he already does.

"And for me, honestly. I don't actually like making you miserable. Or her."

He wishes Camilla's own misery at the possibility of their separation was enough to overcome her scruples about the other two.

"I'm not miserable—not when I'm with you."

"Darling, you are."

That's why he was so hung up on the idea of the divorce. He doesn't actually have the stomach for betrayal, and he tricked himself into believing that would mean he wasn't betraying Diana, anymore—even though the act itself would be the ultimate betrayal.

"I'm thinking about giving up polo."

So he doesn't have to see her again—he's so weak, he's not sure he can bear seeing her and not _being_ with her, in every way and all ways.

He's never been with her in all ways and he never will be and that is the point, or part of it.

"You shouldn't. People would wonder if that was the reason." They haven't exactly been careful or as discreet as they should've been. "If _I'm_ the reason."

She tells him that they'll still see each other and even speak to each other, go to the same parties that they do now—that it's inevitable. Being separated, cut off from one another entirely—Camilla is convinced that will only feed into his infernal romantic streak, will turn her into a tragic heroine. Far better, she says, for him to see her slowly turn into an even stouter and horsier middle-aged woman before his eyes.

"And you do love it."

"Diana doesn't."

"No—but she's got used to it, by now."

And she won't let Charles out of her sight, no matter the promises he's planning on giving her. She'll always wonder—and Diana will be right to wonder. Charles will wonder himself.

"Won't you miss me?" He's never got over that boyish uncertainty—Camilla brings it out, not even trying to. "Don't you love me?"

"Of course I will—and dearly."

Is this supposed to be a comfort, or is she just torturing him? No, it must be the first one. Camilla doesn't have a malicious streak.

"You know how I feel about you—truly, deeply."

He loves her—she was the first. One could never forget one's first.

"You're _in_ love with me, sir." She smiles, sadly. "It's not quite the same thing."

* * *

The spring day when Alice is born starts clear, but then, as is so often the case in England in April, clouds appear. Before noon it's thoroughly wet, and thousands of people with union jack brollies form an odd checkered pattern visible from above.

He's in the delivery room with her the whole time and comes out to the expected roaring crowd waiting for him, for good news. When Charles goes back to the apartment in Kensington Palace to try to sleep, he can hear the ongoing shouts and cheers in the streets, and they seem to be a little louder than when Harry was born. They've put the announcement on the gates of Buckingham Palace, then.

The country was also hoping for a girl.

He waves at the reporters as he enters the hospital, just as he did the last two times—though he has to let Harry's hand go to do it, and his son wanders a little, which they all laugh at, until Charles manages to get ahold of him.

The boys clamber onto Mummy's bed to take a look at their sister. William and Harry are enthralled, naturally, and he lets them get their fill of the doll-like baby princess before taking a peak. Diana is eager to let him hold Alice, but he holds back, not quite sure he deserves it, yet.

The great shout outside alerts him to Mummy's arrival in the hospital, and the Queen kisses each of his cheeks and grasps his arm and he knows she's pleased him in a way she hasn't been for several years. This wasn't just about doing his duty—it was in some sense going above and beyond it. By accident, of course, but she's willing to overlook it this time.

The new princess has the same tuft of blond hair as her two brothers did, at birth.

"I think she looks like _you_ did, Charles."

He caresses the princess's cheek, feeling the heat of Diana's gaze but not quite able to meet it. He had also had blond hair—all the Windsors did, to start.

"God, let's all hope she grows out of it."

He made the same joke about William—and Harry ended up almost entirely looking like Diana's side, which rankled at the time and had more to do with the state of their marriage than his red hair.

"From your lips to God's ears," Andrew agrees, smirking—as only Andrew can. "After all, her mother is the most famous and beautiful woman in the world, and her father is, well— _you_."

Because the day is such a good one, he is tolerant. His toddler niece is there, after all.

"A true _beauty and the beast_ story."

"At least you know it."

Diana grasps his hand, and he looks down at her. She's tired and elated and still, somehow, _young._

" _I_ think it would be nice if one of our children had dark hair, like yours."

It's what the family wants, too, though they'll never be so indiscreet as to say it. Their campaign to show the world a united front as man and wife, as father and mother, prince and princess, has worked—mostly, but the press have not forgotten what the state of their marriage has been, these past few years. They all know about Diana's lovers, and the cannier of their lot will see the campaign for what it was—royal public relations, meant to quash doubts. These doubts will persist as Alice grows, perhaps they will follow her around, and so the Queen wishes her to look an unmistakable Windsor.

Charles, however, will not wish his homeliness on a little girl—certainly not to save her father's face. A princess deserves better.

He supposes his hair color and Diana's face would be acceptable—if that's really what his wife wants.

Now that she's here, the bitterness that surrounded her origins is a distant memory, and he can at last admit he's grateful for the pity he'd felt at Diana's terrible singing.

It has borne fruit that neither of them deserve.

* * *

She is christened _Alice Alexandria Helena Mary_ in the chapel at Windsor.

As the family passes the princess between them, he goes to look for Diana. He finds his wife sitting in an alcove at the side of the church, sitting as still as a statue. In profile she resembles one—she was carved by God, clearly. The day and crowds and attention have taken it out of her, as it always does.

"We're going to see less of you now, aren't we?"

Charles asks her, in the soft and uncertain voice of a boy, why she would ask such a thing.

"Because—" She bites her thumb, an old habit. "You'll be in Gloucestershire all the time. Like you were—before. You much prefer it to London."

The forced campaign of smiling and posing and doing everything together is at an end, in other words. Things will go back to the way they were before. A child has never been a guarantee of marital bliss, for them—Alice will be no exception, even though she _is_ a girl.

"I was hoping you'd be there with me."

He decides he can't put it off any longer, and tells her that he's ended it.

"For good, this time."

She's insulted by what she perceives to be his total disregard for her intelligence.

"I've heard that one before." She stands up, towers over him on the top step of the alcove. "What present did you give her this time?"

"There wasn't a goodbye gift."

Because he would see Camilla, and it wouldn't be good for him to see her wearing something of his, not that he thought she would wear it. They've both learned that lesson the hard way.

"What made you decide to give her up?"

He's embarrassed by the question, shy to answer it, so he dodges instead.

"I thought you'd be happy." It's very hard not to be petulant with Diana—he is _trying_. "Isn't it what you've wanted?"

Yes, but he can see from the look in her eyes it's not _all_ she wanted, not even what she wants most, and he's still not sure he can give her _that_ —at least, not in the way she wants it.

"You'll always be in love with her."

Charles scuffs the stone floor with his shoe.

"I think—I may—I probably will," he confesses, sheepishly, because it's not something he's proud of anymore, though he used to be. "Are you...able to live with that?"

Diana sits back down on the top step.

"Do I have a choice?"

"We don't have to go on if you don't want to. Everyone would understand." He shakes his head. "The whole world would be on your side."

"The only person I've ever wanted on my side is _you_."

He looks at the spot beside her and realizes he won't fit next to his wife—how appropriate that is, them not fitting on the same step, not being on the same _level_ —and so he puts on knee down on the step below, because it's the only way he can fit.

"So then—I'll be on your side."

Diana looks down at him, trying to hide that faint glimmer of hope he's counting on, the flickering of the candle that she can't manage to snuff out, though they'd both have been much happier if she had. But Diana is Diana, she's the huntress, and she cannot give up her hunt.

"I have something for you."

Diana hadn't always given him what he wanted—but she'd given him what she had—or had tried to, because more often than not he'd thrown it back in her face. Now it was his turn to at least try.

"In honor of Alice's birth and—something else."

She box is small and square and fit easily in his pocket, and he pulls it out and watches her unwrap the necklace. He's waiting for her to find the inscription on the back of the setting on the enormous sapphire in center.

"' _You know I do_ '..." Her blue eyes tilt up. "What does that mean?"

"You mean you don't—recognize it?"

His befuddlement must be obvious to Diana, because she immediately turns apologetic and confused and knows she's put a foot wrong.

"It's from that—" Charles tries to put it delicately. "Song. From that—play you like."

This is painful. It is paining him to say these words, and still Diana does not understand what he is talking about.

"You _must_ know it," Charles says, impatient. "You're the one who enlisted the whole West End...to sing it on the set, and have it filmed, and everything."

He still refuses to say the title of the show or the name of its composer. If he doesn't say either aloud he can pretend the quote on the necklace is from Puccini, or something.

"Oh— _oh!"_ Her face lights up with recognition, and of course, because it's sweet and innocent Diana, delight. "My anniversary gift for you! How could I have been so stupid, Charles, for not remembering that."

He has wanted to forget ever since, quite frankly, so Charles doesn't think it's stupid at all. His wife puts a hand on his knee, and it occurs to him that he's not sure he's ever been in this position.

"I just—I guess I didn't realize you loved it so much."

In the old days this would be when he'd put on his scaffolded smile and agree with her and hate himself for it.

"The thing is—I didn't."

Diana's face drops.

"You—"

"It was dreadful. To tell you the truth, when you put in the tape and you and I were sitting there, I could barely keep a straight face through it."

She's actually less angry than he'd expected her to be. Possibly the obscene sapphire necklace she's clutching helps.

"You hated it."

"Not as much as that dance," he assures her, calmly. "But your singing leaves something to be desired."

"I was singing for _you—_ "

"—But not well."

She breathes in—and out. Still not angry, yet. Or even hurt. Perhaps it's the dawning realization of something she's probably known for awhile, deep down.

"But that was the night that we—"

"—I know."

He can see on her face she's remembering what occurred after. She knows when _it_ happened as well as he does, and it is appropriate that on the day of their daughter's christening the scales should fall from her eyes at last.

"And I thought—"

"— _I know._ I didn't know how to tell you, so I just—sort of went along with it."

This insult to her womanly pride does rouse Diana's anger.

"Went along with it—what, out of _pity_?"

"More out of a sense of obligation. You'd gone to all the trouble, after all—"

"You really are _loathsome,_ Charles."

He grasps the hand that dangles at her side, which is her left. Her engagement ring dominates that hand—the well-known symbol of their union, and he hadn't even picked it out for her. At the time he wouldn't have known the first thing about what she liked.

"It's a well-known fact."

Eyes sparkling with tears, Diana looks back down at her present, reads the words, and he watches her recall the lyric that proceeds them, the truth slowly dawning. It's more becoming than her figuring out the truth surrounding Alice's conception, more a flower blossoming than a storm brewing.

Her angry breathing in and out abates, and she calms.

"Charles," she bends her head down, very close to his face. "Are you saying you've fallen in love with me?"

He kisses her hand, an act of devotion more than passion—of supplication.

As a husband should his wife.

"Whatever 'in love' means."

* * *

_ In such great inevitable love, often love at first sight, we catch a vision, I suppose, of marriage as it should have been in an un-fallen world. In this fallen world we have as our only guides, prudence, wisdom (rare in youth, too late in age), a clean heart, and fidelity of will. _

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas, Catie! I love you and I love that we can share the niche appreciation for something as ridiculous as Waleses fix-fic. Thank you for the five years of our friendship.
> 
> This story started out as a joke (it's not BRF RPF, I swear, this is the show's version of these people) but quickly became a heartfelt love letter to Christian marriage. The quotes are from a Tolkien letter which I couldn't resist using because it worked so perfectly for these characters. I highly recommend reading it.
> 
> Always appreciate comments, and God bless on this joyous Christmas.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Think of a New Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28316631) by [catie_writes_things](https://archiveofourown.org/users/catie_writes_things/pseuds/catie_writes_things)




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